A tale of Theo

July 8, 1982 in Guadalajara, Spain

Mary and I had just completed a bike ride across the Pyrennes of Spain, from San Sebastian to Gerona, northwest to southeast. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. The temperatures were scorching, the flies demonic. I rode my bike, Mary rode shotgun in the car. I was 35 years old, unemployed, and never had suffered such physical hardship nor been in as good a physical and mental shape as I was after this 450-mile ride through the mountains of Spain.

This next story took place on our way back to Madrid, getting ready to return to the United States.

We were buzzing along from Alcaniz to Guadalajara. Mary was commenting about how little trouble we had had with the rental car. Less than a minute later the fan belt began to shred. The road we were on had only a few villages before reaching the major city some 60 miles away. About 10 miles after the belt began to give way we stopped at the first village we saw.

I knocked on the thick wooden door of the first house we saw. "Who is it?" shouted someone from deep within the bowels of the house.

"A foreigner," I shout back.

The woman rushes to open the door. I tell her my sad tale of woe. The husband strolls by and tells us there is a repair shop for tractors some six kilometers down the road. We nurse the car at 50 km/hour to the gas station that the man has told us about.

This gas station (San Cristobal) in Povola Duena apparently has an idiot for an attendant. We asked him if there was anybody nearby who could help us get our car fixed. He replies "No, just drive another 23 kilometers to Molina de Aragon."

"The car won't make it that far."

"In that case would you please move it away from my gas pumps?"

So we decided to fill the gas tank, hoping to mellow out the attendant. The bill came to $12.40. I handed him a $50 bill. He of course had no change. I asked him where I could get change. He pointed to a bar across the street.

The bartender was Theo. He was joking and drinking with his customers at 11:30 A.M. He had change. He also had a phone.

I hate talking to people over a phone, in English or Spanish, so Mary made the call. She got about four wrong numbers (including one given us by the operator) before we got the Seat (Spanish Fiat) service man. Teo to the rescue. He heard Mary struggling over the phone. Looking at me, he said "Gimme that phone!" I passed that mandate on to Mary, and she gladly complied.

Teo then started this humorous conversation. "Who was he talking to?" "Well, this is Teo, and these two people here need a fan belt for their car. Send somebody out immediately. No, ten minutes is too soon. Twenty is OK."

The extra ten minutes were apparently the time Teo thought he needed to try to sell us something. He brought out a large, gilded mirror and started trying to sell it to anybody in the bar. $40 would do it.

Abut this time a Seat drives up with three people and ARAB license plates! I hand my wallet over to Mary to pay the bar bill and stroll outside to find out what is going on. Mary, always a big tipper, paid the 40 cent tab and left a generous 25-cent tip for Teo for all his troubles.

The Arab, the service station manager, and the manager's son start to work on the car. Five minutes later it was fixed!

I asked for a receipt to give to the rental car agency. He said I should follow him into Molina. We get into our car. The Arab, lifts his crutch and points to the seat belt hanging out the side of the car, and says in English "Seat belt!" He motions with his crutch that the belt had been hanging outside the car door. Now safety fastened in, on a semi-paved road we follow the station manager into town going over 100 km per hour.

We arrive in Molina. The Arab does not follow us back, and we never see him again. We have no idea how he came into the picture nor what his relationship is with any of these other people.

The bill was a total of $12. While it is being prepared the station manager's wife makes me swear to God that I will go to see the monastery "Roca de Piedra" some sixty kilometers away from our return route to Madrid. It didn't matter that we had to leave the next day. The Roca was a precious, precious site. After about five minutes of this I am about ready to swear to anything, which I do, and politely excuse myself.

It is now lunch time. I suggest we try to find something to eat. Mary say "Did you ask them where we should eat?" I say "No, but I DID promise to go to the Roca de Piedra." She is not amused. "You never think one minute ahead, do you?"

While she's not speaking to me we wander through the town and finally find what is undoubtedly the best place to eat, just a three to four minute walk from the station.

Muttering unkind words such as "Glutton" or "I have NEVER been so angry with you," she proceeds to follow me into the restaurant. We sit down. I order. She orders. She explodes again. "Did you ever think that I might want some wine with my meal?"

"OK," I say, "let's order some."

"It's too late now!"

A half bottle of rosé wine later, she's calm. I am now on the far side of calm. We are ready to go home.